I Am Here
by AndAllThatMishigas
Summary: AU - Lucien receives a letter from his mother asking him to come home because his father is dying. He returns to Ballarat to find a housekeeper being friendly with Genevieve Blake. Lucien must cope with losing his father, adjusting to the new life he's fallen into, and endeavor to make his mother proud. And what of this Jean Beazely, who is so unimpressed by his charms?
1. Chapter 1

**I Am Here**

 _Chèr Lucien,_

 _I hope this letter finds you soon. You have not written in some time, and I know how you hate to stay in one place for too long._

 _I am sorry to say that I am writing to ask you to come home. Your father is very ill and will soon be unable to work, and his patients need a doctor. I hope this request is not too much to ask. And I hope you will not think it too much for an old woman to want her family all together one final time._

 _I hope to see you soon._

 _Bises, Maman_

Lucien read the short letter about half a dozen times in a row. Each time, he felt a new emotion. Fear over his father's impending death. Anger at the requirement of returning to Ballarat. Guilt at the way his mother had practically begged him to come home.

Home. He scoffed. Such a foolish concept. Ballarat was where he was born, and it was where his parents lived. But it was no home to him. Nowhere had felt like home in a very long time.

One week later, he arrived on the doorstep of the house he had sworn he'd never return to. With a deep breath, he knocked on the door.

It opened and a strange woman appeared. She looked at him with big turquoise eyes and an expression of instant annoyance.

"Who are you?" he asked sharply.

"Jean Beazley. I'm the housekeeper," she replied. "Welcome home, Dr. Blake."

He sneered and pushed past her with his suitcase to go inside. She closed the door behind him and huffed, rolling her eyes.

Lucien saw that nothing had changed in the house in the last twenty years since he had been there. It was strangely comforting and infuriating all at once.

"Your father's with a patient, but I'll let your mother know you're here. We weren't expecting you," Jean said with a slight glare.

"I can tell her myself after I put my bags in my room," he replied stiffly, making his way toward the stairs.

"That's my room now, actually. You'll have to take the spare room next to the study. I'll make it up for you," Jean informed him.

In a moment of petulance, Lucien roughly dropped his bags on the floor. "Fine. Is my mother in the studio?"

"No, she's in the garden. You can tell her I'll bring the tea out to you in a bit," Jean instructed.

Lucien went out the back and found a thin, gray-haired woman sitting in a sunchair, intently sketching a red-gold plant. He stood behind her for a moment, quietly watching her work. He couldn't help but smile and feel serenely content in that moment. "That's a strange plant. I hope you can make it prettier when you paint it," he teased.

Genevieve startled slightly and turned her head. "Lucien! Come over here, mon chou! Let me look at you!"

He crossed to stand in front of her and grinned. "It's good to see you, Maman."

She sighed, "You look awful. Be sure to get a haircut and trim that horrible beard before the rest of Ballarat sees you."

"Yes, the trip was fine, thank you for asking," he replied facetiously.

Genevieve laughed and waved him toward her. "Oh, come here! It's too much trouble to get up."

Lucien bent down to embrace her. "Is everything alright? Why can't you stand?"

She chuckled into his shoulder as she held her son tight. "I am getting old, Lucien. You haven't noticed because we haven't seen you in six years."

He released her and pulled up another chair to sit beside her. Regarding his mother's appearance, he did notice a frailness about her that was new to him. He couldn't believe it had been so long since he had met his parents in Melbourne for dinner the last time.

Genevieve couldn't stop looking at him. He was always a sight to see, and never the same. As a boy, he had always been slight and energetic. When he'd gotten older, he was very tall and slender. It was when he joined the army, however, that he had gotten rather fit. But when he'd been brought to Melbourne to be treated in the hospital after the war, he had been emaciated and nearly beaten dead. It had taken a long time for him to get to the strong, solid, gnarled form he was now in, seated before her. She didn't remember him being quite so unkempt, but now that he was home, she could make sure he cleaned up properly.

"Since when do you have a housekeeper?" he asked abruptly.

"For about ten years."

"Why?" Lucien couldn't understand why there was a strange woman living in their house, in his room!

"I've known Jean from the Church. She fell on very hard times and lost her farm, so we offered her the position here. She's a very good woman. She works hard, and I think we'd be lost without her."

He frowned. "Why?" he asked again.

"Well, I've never been much for housework or cooking. And the older I got, the more difficult it was. Jean is a wonderful cook, as you'll see, and she keeps the house in perfect order, and she keeps the books and appointments for the surgery," she explained. "And most important, we love her very much. You will, too, I think. In time," Genevieve thought aloud, smiling knowingly.

Lucien just shrugged.

Jean then came out to the garden with a tray of tea things. "Here we are. Agnes Clasby just left, so Dr. Blake will be joining us shortly." She poured tea for Lucien and handed it to him and corrected, "The elder Dr. Blake."

"You'll have to call me Lucien. It'll be bad enough to have two doctors in the house. No need to confuse names," Lucien insisted.

"Very well," Jean replied with a nod. "By the way, I did fix up a room for you. And I moved your bags. You seemed very insistent on leaving them in the middle of the floor, but I wouldn't want anyone to trip."

Genevieve sipped her tea to hide a giggle. Jean had such marvelous…what had Thomas called it? Sass. Jean had sass.

"Madame, I'll take your things into the studio, if you'd like," Jean offered, having poured tea for everyone, leaving a cup free for Dr. Blake.

But Genevieve shook her head. "No, please stay here and have tea with us. You and Lucien should get to know each other. Jean, Lucien was just asking about the beautiful plant I was sketching."

"Beautiful is a strong word," Lucien derided.

Jean frowned, glowering at him. "It's an aloe plant. And it's mine."

They were interrupted by the loud sounds of coughing. Jean immediately stood up and rushed into the house. She returned a moment later, helping the Thomas Blake shuffle through the garden to where they sat.

Lucien was dumbfounded. His father really was very sick. Some sort of lung disease, by the look of him and the sound of that rather nasty cough.

Jean helped Thomas into a chair and handed him a handkerchief to cough into. When he settled down, she handed him a cup of tea.

"Thank you, Jean," Thomas rasped. "Lucien, welcome back," he greeted, turning to his son.

Lucien just gave a polite nod. He was suddenly filled with an irrational annoyance. How dare his father be dying! How dare he leave all of this terrible monotonous nonsense to Lucien! If he hadn't refused to disappoint his mother as constantly as he had in his youth, Lucien wouldn't have bothered coming back at all.

And now, with his father barely noticing his presence, a housekeeper staring daggers at him, and his mother kindly pitying him, Lucien regretted his decision to return. "I am here," he stated with a resigned sigh.


	2. Chapter 2

Jean Beazley had always been an observant person. Intelligent and reserved—as much as she could manage it—but her utility and skill in life had always come from her observant nature, always watching and understanding everything around her. This trait proved to be both useful and incredibly frustrating when it came to Lucien Blake.

Madame seemed to be willfully blind to her son's faults. And Dr. Blake was far too ill and concerned with his patients to pay much attention to Lucien. But Jean noticed.

Lucien would sit in with his father for all patient appointments. He would learn about each person's case history and treatment and ailments. He would assist when Dr. Blake had a coughing fit—more often than made anyone comfortable—or when anything needed to be done that was too strenuous or delicate for the doctor's ill state. From what Jean could see, Lucien was a very caring, concerned doctor. A worthy successor to Dr. Blake's practice, in her mind.

But it was everything else that caused trouble. If Lucien was home in the evening, which was infrequent, he would close himself up in his room and not speak to anyone. He was late to every meal, if he joined the meal at all. He would go out after the last patient appointment and not return until extremely late at night. The sound of the front door always woke Jean and she would stand at the top of the stairs and watch him stumble drunkenly through the house to his room.

One night, about three weeks after Lucien's arrival, Jean found herself staring at an unused plate at one end of the dinner table. Once again, he hadn't shown up for supper with his family. She was beyond frustrated with the irregularity of it and his utter lack of concern for the trouble she or anyone else went to in fixing a meal.

Dr. Blake noticed her glare at the empty place setting. "There's a lot you have to learn about Lucien, Jean," he told her gently.

"He may as well just stay in a hotel and show up for work each day, what with the time he spends out of the house. I would be a lot easier on everyone, and he would probably enjoy it more. I just can't understand why he would come all this way and stay here if he wasn't going to even try to be a part of the household," she grumbled.

"Where were your sons when you lost your farm?" Thomas countered.

Jean felt a knot in her stomach, knowing that Dr. Blake had a very good point. Her sons loved her very much, she knew, but neither Christopher nor Jack had done anything when she'd told them she had to sell the farm before she went completely broke and starved. The Blakes had taken her in and given her a good job without question. Christopher had gotten married and lived his own life, while Jack hadn't even answered her letter.

Genevieve put her hand on Jean's. "He is here. That is much more than I ever expected. And I don't wish to disrupt what little he's given us."

"He's only here because you asked," Thomas said knowingly. "You see, Jean, Lucien loves his mother very much. Me, he just tolerates. He's never forgive me for…"

"Anything," Genevieve interjected. "We sent him away to school when he was very young. It was very clear, almost immediately, that he was terribly clever. Much more curious and driven than we could have ever imagined. None of the schools here could ever hope to give him the challenge and discipline he needed. I didn't want him to go, so I kept him with me as long as I could, but when he was about ten, it was time."

"He blamed me for taking him away from his mother. Genevieve couldn't get out of bed that day, distraught at the thought of saying goodbye."

Genevieve hung her head. "I should have gone to see him of. But I couldn't bear it."

Thomas continued, "And then when he got married…"

"He's married!?" Jean interrupted in surprise.

"He was," Genevieve answered sadly. "He joined the army as soon as he finished school, desperate to stay as far from Ballarat as possible. He was stationed in Singapore just before the war."

Jean's heart constricted, knowing what had happened to Allied forces in Singapore. "Oh dear."

Thomas nodded. "His wife was killed in front of him. Their daughter was taken away. Lucien was in a prisoner of war camp for over a year."

Genevieve swallowed hard. She hated being reminded of the horrors her son had faced. "But he survived. And he is here," she said with a watery smile.

Jean squeezed her hand. "Yes. He is here."

Thomas and Genevieve went into the parlor while Jean cleaned up the meal. She put together a plate for Lucien and left it in the oven to keep warm for his return.

He returned home earlier than usual. Jean wasn't even in bed yet, though the doctor and Madame had retired for the evening. She was sitting at the kitchen table, going over the household account books, when she heard the front door open and close haphazardly. Jean stood up and went to the hallway to watch him struggle to hang up his hat and coat.

"Ah. Mrs. Beazley. Hello," he slurred.

"Have you had dinner?" she asked, ignoring his attempt at politeness.

"If whiskey counts as dinner, yes."

She sighed, "Come into the kitchen. I saved a plate for you. It should still be good. And perhaps if you sober up a bit before going to bed, you'll be able to wake in time for breakfast."

Lucien followed her, holding onto the wall to stay upright. He watched the sway of her hips as she walked and felt dizzy. She held out a chair for him to slump into. He smiled dumbly at her. "You're very beautiful," he stated.

"You're very drunk," she replied.

"Yes, we're both quite good at stating the obvious."

Jean didn't want to engage in that sort of inane conversation with a man three sheets to the wind. But when she turned to get the plate from the oven, she smiled to herself at the compliment. Men didn't notice her much these days, which usually suited her just fine. That was a distraction and an entire set of complications that a widowed housekeeper just didn't need. But having a man as attractive as Lucien Blake say she was beautiful did wonders for her self-confidence. Jean knew, however, that she best put that right out of her head. "Here, eat up," she said, putting the plate in front of him with a set of silverware.

"Thank you, Mrs. Beazley."

"Please call me Jean. Both your parents do. And you should do something to be a part of the household, even if it's just calling me by my first name."

He paused eating, looking up at her. "You don't like me much, do you?"

"It isn't a question of liking you. I don't know you well enough to feel any particular way about you. You're never here. And I just think it's rather rude to use your parents' house as just a place to sleep it off. I know your father appreciates your help in the surgery, but your mother barely gets to spend any time with you, and I know she'd like to. Though I don't think she'd want to look at you with your hair so unkempt. Goodness, when's the last time you had it cut?" she asked, allowing her ranting lecture to take a turn along with her stream of conscious.

"Mother does want me to get it cut, but I haven't had time. I'm here all day. And I'm out of money. It isn't as though Dad pays me to do his job for him," he muttered angrily.

Jean raised her brow in surprise. He might have money to pay for a haircut if he didn't spend it all on whiskey, but perhaps pointing that out now would only antagonize him further. "Finish eating, and I'll cut it for you," she told him.

"You will?"

"Yes. I used to give my boys haircuts. Nothing to it," she assured him.

Lucien ate every morsel of the meal she'd saved for him. His mother was right, Jean was a wonderful cook. He hadn't really noticed before now.

Before he knew it, Jean had put a sheet around him and began cutting his hair. "Your mother will be pleased with your cleaner appearance."

"Good. I don't like when she's unhappy."

"None of us do," Jean said with a small smile. "She really is the most wonderful woman. I feel very lucky to know her. Everything about her is so elegant and refined. And her talent and artistry is so apparent in everything she does. Even the way she speaks, with that French lilt, is beautiful. I'm glad I can do the housework for her. A lady like that shouldn't know hard work."

"And you should?"

She shrugged. "Whether I should or not is beside the point. I lived all my life on a farm before I came to live here. I've worked hard every single day, and I wouldn't know what to do if I didn't."

Lucien tried to nod, but Jean held his head still. "I enjoy hard work. To a point. I like to feel useful."

"But instead you choose to spend your nights out of the house getting piss-drunk?"

"Yes, well, I wouldn't do that in the house. Mother shouldn't see me like this."

Jean decided to ask the question that had been on her mind for weeks. "Why do you drink so much?"

In his still-inebriated state, Lucien had no qualms about answering her. "It numbs my mind and reminds me I'm invincible."

"Are you?"

"Oh yes. Nothing can hurt me. Not really. And when I'm sober and by myself, I get bored. But I don't always drink."

"Don't you?"

"I've got some amphetamines when I really want to have some fun."

"Isn't that illegal?"

He shrugged. "Doesn't really matter. I'm invincible."

Jean was very concerned by that statement, unsure of what to make of it. Her mind drifted to his wife, killed right in front of him, and his daughter. Where was she now? But that was a question for another time. She combed his hair, making sure there were no stray ends she'd missed. Satisfied with her work, she removed the sheet, collecting the fallen hair. "Alright. All done. Go to bed, Lucien."

"Thank you, Jean."

She watched him walk out of the room, noticing he still couldn't manage a straight line. Jean sighed to herself. This may prove to be more work than she'd planned.


	3. Chapter 3

Jean had to pry Madame's fingers away. Physically restrain her from trying to follow. Hold her tightly as she sobbed.

Dr. Blake's lung cancer had been growing slowly, making him just a little bit worse every day. His coughing fit had gotten longer and more frequent. In recent days, Lucien had to take over his appointments completely. That was what they had planned, after all; Lucien would learn his father's practice and take over when Dr. Blake couldn't work anymore. They had just reached that point.

Everyone had assumed that he would slip away slowly. Be bedridden for weeks or months, giving them all enough time to say goodbye and get used to the idea of his passing.

No one imagined he would have a massive heart attack that, due to his poor lung function, killed him before anyone knew what was happening.

Genevieve had been the one to discover him, checking on her husband before Jean came to bring him lunch. Her scream had alerted Jean. Unsure of what else to do in that situation, Jean called the police. Lucien was out somewhere, having disappeared after the only appointment of the morning.

Constable Danny Parks had immediately come to the house. "Auntie Jean, I'm so sorry," he greeted kindly, giving her a hug.

Jean appreciated her nephew's comforting embrace. "Thank you, Danny. I wasn't sure what to do. The other Dr. Blake is out, and I don't know where he is."

Danny nodded. "The ambos are on the way to collect the body. I'll go find the doc after I make sure you're all taken care of here."

Jean did her best to swallow back her tears. She'd have time to cry later. For now, she had to see to Madame. Genevieve Blake had been in shock, sitting at her husband's side, holding his cold hand.

The ambulance arrived, and Jean led the men into the bedroom.

"Madame, you have to let go now," Jean said gently.

Genevieve shook her head defiantly. Tears had escaped her eyes and fell unhindered down her face. She wouldn't let go of Thomas's hand. She couldn't. They were supposed to have more time. Time to talk about all the things she had asked him not to discuss because it made her too sad. Things they would never get to say now.

She began to sob as Jean practically ripped her hand away from her husband. Genevieve cried out, standing to follow the men carrying Thomas away, but Jean wouldn't let her. "Please, Madame, let the men do their job. We can go see him later. Please," Jean begged.

Unable to contemplate anything at all, Genevieve crumpled onto the bed. The sheets weren't warm like they should have been, as they usually were when Thomas first got out of bed. She was shaking with her violent crying.

Jean knew she needed to help. Lucien wasn't here to do anything. So she dashed into the surgery and went through the cabinets where the doctor had his stock of medicines. Jean couldn't recall the name of the sedative, but she knew what the pills looked like. Dr. Blake had given her one once when she'd had a panic attack a few years back.

"Madame, swallow this," Jean instructed, helping the old woman sit up and handing her a glass of water with the small pill. "This will help you sleep. Try to take deep breaths."

Jean held Genevieve until she calmed down and stopped hyperventilating. It was hard to believe that this was the same woman that Jean looked at as a role model, who was—dare she say such a thing about her employer—her best friend. It tore her to bits to see such a strong, even-mannered woman be so thoroughly broken this way. Dr. and Mrs. Blake always seemed so happy to Jean, but in a reserved and easy, comfortable way. This display only convinced Jean that these were two people who were very much in love. Even after so many years together, Madame obviously still felt the same kind of passion for her husband that she had as a much younger woman.

With this thought came Jean's realization that she had never felt that way about anyone in all her life. Christopher's death had been so sudden and unexpected and painful, but in a very different way. Jean had been upset at becoming a widow because her predictable, safe life had been ripped away from her. And her husband, who she had allowed to go off to war in anger, had never gotten to hear her tell him all the things a wife should say to her husband. But even if she had gotten to tell Christopher everything she should have—that he was good enough and man enough—Jean knew she wouldn't have been this upset at his passing. Her hurt and grief had been born from guilt and fear, not from true love, as Madame's pain obviously was. And Jean selfishly felt sad to know that she never had and never would feel anything so deeply.

Jean sat with Genevieve until she had fallen asleep, helping her get comfortable in bed. It felt wrong to allow her to sleep in the sheets where her husband had just died, but Jean somehow knew she wouldn't allow her to change the bed today.

The sound of the front door opening caused Jean to swallow back her own feelings. She had to give Lucien the news. Or maybe Danny had found him and told him when he sent Lucien home. Either way, Jean needed to be available for whatever he needed now. She was the housekeeper, and this was the Blake house. She may have spent more time in the house than he had in the last decade, but she worked for the family. It was work that she valued, but it was work that never ended.

She found him in the front hallway with a strange expression on his face. His eyes were darting around, and his hands fidgeted with the hem of his suit jacket.

"Jean." It was a statement. Not a question or a greeting. Just the fact of her presence.

"Lucien," she greeted with a nod.

"We should do something."

Ah, so Danny had already told him. That was what she assumed. "What would you like to do? I'll help any way I can," she told him gently, walking toward him in an offer of support.

His eyes went wide. "We should bake!" he said excitedly. Lucien took her hand in his and quickly pulled her into the kitchen. He stopped suddenly, causing her to bump into him with the inertia of his pace. "No. We shouldn't bake."

Jean could feel a strange sweat to his palm. "I can make you something."

"Lammingtons!"

She nodded. "I can do that for you."

But he shook his head. "No, later. Let's go to the garden." He pulled her out the backdoor to the yard.

Jean waited for him to do something, but he just stood stock-still in the middle of the garden, eyes still wild. His whole body seemed to buzz with energy. She wasn't sure what to make of this. "Lucien?"

He whirled around quickly to face her. "Jean. Yes. Sorry. I shouldn't be here. Father will be cross. He'll think I took something from the surgery. But I didn't. These were mine." His gaze wandered. He'd gotten distracted by a bug flying by. "I was bored."

"Oh, Lucien," she groaned. He wasn't grief-stricken. He was high. "What did you take?"

"Something. I don't know. Say, would you like to dance? Yes, we should dance," he insisted, pulling her hand so she would stumble toward him. "No, we haven't got any music. This isn't right."

She stood inappropriately close to him, his right arm around her waist, his left hand still holding her right. Jean placed her free hand on his chest, lightly pushing him away. "I really wish you hadn't done this. Not today."

"Why not today? Today is a perfectly lovely day to have an adventure. Say, would you like to take some with me? You might enjoy it. Though perhaps not. You still don't like me, do you? I wish you did. You are very pretty. But bossy. Though I think I like that. It's nice to have someone care enough to be a bit mean to me." His stream of consciousness was coming out in clipped sentences and sharp tones and quick, jerky movements.

Jean started to laugh. She couldn't help herself. It was just the most ridiculous thing. "I am not mean to you, am I?" she asked between girlish giggles.

He started to laugh with her. Somewhere in his hazy mind, he savored the sound of her laughter, memorizing the look of joy on her face. Oh she was quite pretty. "I don't know if you're mean, but you're always cross at me. Worse than my parents, you are."

The mention of his parents made the laughter get caught in her throat. Her bottom lip quivered and her eyes filled with tears. How could she possibly be laughing at a time like this?! Jean placed a shaking hand on his cheek, preemptively comforting him. She tried to ignore how he automatically nuzzled into her touch. "Oh Lucien, I'm so sorry."

"What for?"

"Lucien, your father had a heart attack this afternoon. He died a few hours ago. The ambos came and took him to the funeral home."

All the mirth disappeared from his face. He tore away from her. "Where's my mother?"

"She's asleep. I had to sedate her."

"Sedate her!? Jean, you're not a doctor! What did you give her!?" he shouted.

"I'll show you. I only gave her one." Jean felt the panic rise in her chest, terrified she'd done the wrong thing.

Lucien followed her into the house and to the surgery where she showed him the pill bottle. He let out a breath and nodded. That was exactly what he would have given for a grief-stricken widow. "You said she's sleeping?"

"Yes. I was sitting with her when you came home."

He nodded. "Let her sleep. I need to sober up." Lucien realized he was still vibrating and fidgeting under the effects of the drugs. But at least his mind was relatively clear.

Jean watched him, concerned about what he might be thinking or feeling. "I'm sorry for your loss," she said quietly.

Lucien frowned at her. He was probably too high to feel any sort of grief at the loss of his father. Perhaps that would come later. But Lucien doubted it somehow. "Jean, are you alright?" he asked gently.

She swallowed hard. Now was not the time to cry. "He was your father, Lucien. He was only my employer."

He smiled sadly at her. "But you liked him a lot more than I did. And he certainly adored you."

As much as she'd tried not to think about herself through the day, Jean was confronted directly with the fact that she had felt as though Dr. Blake were her own father, and she did often feel as though he treated her as a sort of daughter in his distant but kind way. And she had loved him. Suddenly, the loss of him was clawing at her heart. She burst into tears.

Lucien immediately took her in his arms, holding her to his chest as she cried.

She tried to stop, knowing this was wholly inappropriate. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't…I don't…" she stammered between hitched breaths.

But he just stroked her hair. "Shh, it's alright, Jean. Just cry. It's alright. I'm here. I'm right here. It's alright to cry."

He held her until she'd run out of tears. "Thank you, Lucien," she whispered with a hoarse voice.

"Of course." He reluctantly released her, feeling a sense of comfort by comforting her. Though perhaps that was just the drugs leaving his system. "I think we should check on my mother."

Jean nodded in agreement. They went into Madame Blake's bedroom and found her lying with eyes wide open, curled up against Thomas's pillow. Lucien didn't hesitate to climb onto the bed and stroke her hair. "I'm here, Maman," he murmured.

Intending to leave the mother and son some privacy, Jean tried to back out of the room unnoticed. But Lucien stopped her, calling her name and gesturing to the other side of the bed. Jean nodded in understanding, sitting on Madame's other side and placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.

The three of them huddled on the bed, never making a sound. There would be a time for words later. At least, that was the lie they all told themselves.


	4. Chapter 4

The phone rang one day, late in the afternoon. Jean sighed, wiping her hands on her apron as she went to answer it. It seemed everyone in Ballarat wanted to call with condolences to Madame and Lucien in the week following Dr. Blake's funeral. Jean was just doing her best to get them both through the day.

"Dr. Blake's surgery," she greeted, as usual.

"Hello, Jean. I'm sorry to ask, but could you come down to the station?"

Jean frowned, hearing Chief Superintendent Matthew Lawson's voice. "To the police station?"

Matthew sighed into the phone. "I've got Lucien in a cell."

"What!?"

"He's drunk out of his mind, and he assaulted one of my officers. Unfortunately, Sergeant Hobart retaliated a bit strongly. So rather than opening a case and charging anyone in the matter, I was hoping to release the good doctor into your care," Matthew explained.

Jean furrowed her brow. "I'll come down and talk to him. But I think it's best if he stays there to dry out. Madame Blake doesn't need any distress."

Matthew understood. "Alright, that's fine. But I will have to release him if we need the cells," he warned.

"Of course. I'll come see him and tell him myself. I'm on my way."

Jean hung up the phone, checked to see if Madame needed anything, and hurried out of the house. As she made her way to the police station, she got increasingly cross. Lucien was drunk. Again. And this time he'd gotten in a fight. Most likely, he'd provoked Bill Hobart and gotten his face bashed in as a result. Jean was ready to give him a scolding to put the drill sergeants in the army to shame.

She passed Bill Hobart scrubbing blood off the sidewalk. Apparently this was his punishment for 'retaliating,' as Matthew had said. Bill had a busted lip, but otherwise looked fine.

Jean marched through the station, a woman on a mission. Matthew just pointed her down the hall, knowing if anyone could rein in Lucien Blake, it was Jean Beazley. He remembered the trouble her son, Jack, used to get into. The boy was more afraid of someone calling his mother than he was at getting arrested. Unlike some mothers, Jean wasn't one to shout or hit her children. But well-chosen words and a sharp glare could make anyone feel guilty and ashamed that they dare disobey and disappoint her. Perhaps it was because she was Catholic, Matthew mused to himself.

"Lucien Blake!" she barked.

He stood up from the small cot and came to the bars upon hearing his name. "Ah, hello Jean," he greeted pleasantly. His voice was oddly nasal.

"Oh, Lucien!" she gasped, her tone changing entirely. She was horrified by the sight of his face. His nose was bandaged, his eyebrow was split, and the rest of his face was black and blue. "What happened?"

"I'm fine," he promised. "Just had a bit of fun with Sergeant Hobart. I've heard he's something of a bruiser. I was in the mood for a bit of a tumble. So I baited him a bit. He showed remarkable restraint before I got him with a right jab to the mouth. But then he took advantage of my wobbly balance."

"You had a doctor look you over and patch you up, I see."

He nodded. "Your Danny held a mirror for me and brought me some first aid materials."

She raised her brow. "You bandaged yourself?"

"Yes, I am a doctor, and it's amazing how getting beaten will sober a person up," he joked.

Jean just glared at him.

"I'm sure you disapprove, but I don't really care. I'd like to go to the house and shower, though, if they're releasing me into your custody."

"Absolutely not! Lucien, your mother cannot see you like this. I won't let anything else upset her."

Lucien's expression became gravely serious. He'd forgotten about his mother. "You're right," he agreed quietly.

Jean nodded in satisfaction. "You'll be spending the night here. I'll see that the chief superintendent releases you first thing so you can clean up before you see patients."

Without another word, Jean turned and walked back out. Lucien watched her go and felt strangely comforted. She'd left him there not to be cruel but because it was what was best for him. Jean was protecting his mother, of course, but she was protecting him, too. Even if it was from himself.

Lucien wiled away the time in lockup lying on the ground, staring at the ceiling. Thankfully, enough of the whiskey was still in his system to keep the anxiety and panic at bay. Being confined in any way tended to bring him right back to being a prisoner of war, huddled in a small, dark room, waiting to be given watery broth to eat or hauled outside to be beaten and whipped mercilessly.

He took deep breaths. Best not think about that. Better to lie on the ground, stretched as big as he could be, and just keep breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth, that was best to keep calm. But his nose was broken, so he had to just take in gulps of air through his open mouth. His hand wandered over his face, gently avoiding the bruised parts. Bill might have given him a hairline fracture on his cheekbone. Time would tell the extent of the damage. Lucien felt his beard. Short and neatly trimmed, just as Mrs. Beazley had instructed. His facial hair had gotten long and tangled during his imprisonment. That wouldn't happen here. He'd keep that in mind.

Before he knew it, the clicking of heeled shoes on the concrete floor sounded down the hall. He rolled over to look. Jean was walking toward him with a basket in her arms.

"Back so soon?"

She regarded him, lying on the floor like a fool. "Dinner. I wasn't going to let you starve."

"Lawson's letting you feed me?"

"If I feed you, it doesn't take out of the department's budget," she pointed out.

Lucien hauled himself off the ground. "Regardless of the reason, it's very nice. Thank you," he told her sincerely.

She passed him a wrapped sandwich made from the roast chicken she'd fixed Madame for supper. He immediately started eating ravenously. Jean put her things down and pulled over the chair from the other end of the hallway.

He watched her, surprised when she sat down. "You're staying?"

"I thought I'd eat with you, if that's alright."

"I appreciate the company. But didn't you eat with my mother?"

"A bit. She still doesn't have much of an appetite, so I don't like having her sit at the table while I eat out of politeness."

Lucien nodded. Grief treated people strangely. He made a mental note to pay closer attention to Maman when he got back to the house.

Jean swallowed her bite of sandwich and asked, "Does your face hurt?"

"Not really. But I don't mind the pain."

She gave him a questioning look.

"I've had much worse. Besides, nothing like cheating death to make you feel alive, eh?" he replied brightly.

Jean found his flippancy morbid and more than a little concerning. "You can't do this anymore. Your father was highly respected in this town. All of Ballarat is grieving for him, even if you aren't. And your mother needs you. You cannot take care of her if you're constantly making an arse of yourself."

He was taken aback by her language. It delighted him. "My mother has you, Jean. I'm just here to take care of the practice. Then I'll be off again."

Her mouth thinned into a dangerous line. "If you do that, you'll be back for her funeral before you know it."

That got his attention. Lucien didn't have words.

Jean stood up pushing the chair aside. She'd wasted enough of her time and energy on a man who obviously didn't care to be helped. But she passed him another sandwich through the bars. She didn't let go of it immediately. His fingers brushed against hers, and she ignored the slight tingle she felt in her spine. "You will not go out drinking anymore. You will be home for dinner every night. You will spend your free time with your mother. After she goes to sleep, you can sit in your room and drink an entire bottle for all I care. But not in public. And no more narcotics and no more fights. I will not have drugs or violence in the house, and I will not have you arrested again."

Lucien's eyes were wide in surprise at her cold, commanding tone. He just nodded.

"Good. I'll see you in the morning. Your first appointment is at ten. Don't be late." With that, she collected her things and left Lucien alone again.

Inexplicably, Lucien smiled. He'd think about Jean Beazley well into the night, he knew. When the lights in the cell went out and he was trying to prevent the nightmares, he'd think about Jean Beazely, who somehow cared enough to make him be better, who, perhaps someday, would be able to keep him grounded somewhere for the first time in his life.


	5. Chapter 5

Lucien did a very good job following Jean's orders. He dried out overnight in the cell and returned to the house a new man. Or as much of one as he tried to be. He was on time for dinner every night. He stopped the drugs. He practically never left the house. As a result, his drinking was significantly curbed, not always for the best.

The nightmares were back. They never left. But he didn't notice them when he got blackout drunk.

The first time she heard him yelling, Jean thought it was about Madame. She threw on her dressing gown and flew downstairs, expecting to see some gruesome scene of Lucien crying over his mother's body. But Lucien was in his room with the door shut. Jean didn't dare go in.

There was a light on in Madame's studio. Jean went to investigate and found her sitting on the sofa, quietly crying.

"Madame, what's wrong?" Jean asked, rushing to her side.

Genevieve sat up straighter and wiped her eyes. "I am fine, cherie."

Jean immediately understood. She would probably have reacted the same way if she had to listen to one of her children in distress like Lucien surely was. "Do you know what's wrong with him?" she asked quietly.

"Thomas had thought Lucien suffered…during the war…that it stayed with him. I didn't imagine how horrible it must have been." Genevieve took a shaky breath. "My son is so broken, Jean. He has always been a difficult boy, but this I don't know what to do with."

"I don't think he's broken, Madame," Jean disagreed. "Maybe a bit rough around the edges, a little too wild, but not broken. Certainly not beyond repair."

Lucien cried out from the other room. Genevieve's tears flowed anew.

"You should try to get some sleep. I'll see to Lucien," Jean offered.

Jean helped Genevieve get to bed, making sure she was comfortable. After that, Jean went down the hall to Lucien's room. She steeled herself with a determined breath before opening his bedroom door.

He was thrashing around in bed, moaning and shouting in fear and imagined pain. She sat beside him and tried to put her hands on his chest and hold him down. "Lucien, wake up," she murmured quietly. He didn't wake. She tried a bit louder. "Lucien!" Jean had to practically press her whole body onto him to get him to calm down. Eventually he settled.

"Jean?" Lucien woke, disoriented. Jean was lying on his chest.

"You were having a nightmare," she explained, slowly getting off him.

"It happens," he said simply, a bitterness leaking from his voice.

She sat on the edge of his bed, looking at him with concern. "What can I do to help?"

"You sure you want to help me?"

"Of course. It's upsetting your mother."

"Ah," he replied with a nod. "We certainly wouldn't want that."

Jean suddenly understood Lucien for the first time since meeting him. "That's why you'd stay out. The drinking and the drugs. To stop the nightmares."

Lucien nodded. "I didn't want her to see me…hear me like this." He hung his head in shame.

She paused, trying to think of something to comfort him. She couldn't think of anything useful to say. His desire to keep his mother shielded from this darkness was understandable. And even if she didn't agree with his methods, Jean appreciated his intention. He'd just have to find another way. Or Jean would. "Go to sleep, Lucien." Jean stood up and left his room.

She returned to soothe his nightmares nearly every evening after that. It kept Genevieve from having to hear him in distress. If Lucien couldn't stop the nightmares, Jean could at least try to ease his suffering.

One night, Lucien asked her to stay. "It's hard to fall back asleep right away. I never know if it'll come back," he admitted.

"You're usually fine after I leave. No more shouting."

"Still, would you stay for just a little while?"

She sighed and settled next to him quietly.

Lucien looked at her with a small smile playing on his lips. "You like me."

Jean snorted, keeping the mood light. "What gave it away?"

"I've seen the way you look at me when you think I don't notice."

She was starting to feel awkward. Never mind trying to comfort him from his nightmares, this wasn't acceptable conversation. Especially not while sitting on his bed in the middle of the night. "Well then," was all she could say. How could she possibly admit that she had taken to keeping constant watch over him, feeling as though he might break apart if she looked away for too long. That wouldn't happen, of course. He would probably be alright without her hovering presence, but Jean felt a strong duty to are for him. Like it was all she had to hold onto some days.

"I like you, Jean. Very much," Lucien told her.

She stiffened.

"Oh, don't think I'm making overtures," he quickly assured her.

Her brows jumped halfway up her forehead. "Aren't you?"

"No, I promise I wouldn't do anything like that."

"I have a feeling you would," she grumbled.

He laughed, "Yes, I have been known to charm the pants off a woman."

Jean nudged him disapprovingly, trying not to laugh.

Lucien continued, "But that only works for one night here and there. You aren't the sort of woman to want just one night."

"Maybe I do want just one night," Jean countered. She honestly wasn't sure if she meant what she said. But she did want to know what he would do. If he did try something...well, Jean wasn't entirely certain she'd refuse him.

He smiled sadly. "I don't want just one night with you, Jean. But I wouldn't even dare try. I'm no good for anyone."

"Well, maybe not yet." She gave his arm a comforting squeeze before getting up and going to the door. She needed to leave before he noticed the blush of flattery in her cheeks or the way her heart beat faster at his words. "Go to sleep, Lucien," she said, repeating her same phrase of departure.

Lucien watched her go and couldn't help but smile. She was a difficult one to peg, but he was starting to see through her strong exterior. In fact, this may have been the first time she had ever treated him with any sort of approval. She wasn't just comforting him to keep his mother happy. She wasn't scolding him. She wasn't frustrated or angry or upset. And she hadn't denied that she liked him.

But more than that, she had given him hope. She believed he could be better. Lucien wanted to be better. He always had. This time, he'd found someone who made him think he could change and grow and become the kind of person she somehow had faith that he could become.

Jean had become his light in the darkness. Quite literally. She woke him from his nightmares and turned on the soft light of the lamp by his bed. Usually they didn't speak. She was just there. She just sat with him until he was alright. Her mere presence had become a source of comfort and strength. Very slowly, Lucien was starting to see that he never wanted to be anywhere she wasn't.

Staying in Ballarat was starting to be much less of a begrudged obligation.


	6. Chapter 6

"Lucien!"

Upon hearing his mother call his name, Lucien stood up from the desk he had slowly claimed as his own in his father's study. His study. It was still an adjustment. Lucien went to the studio where Maman had taken to spending the vast majority of time these days, thank goodness.

"Ah, there you are, mon cher. Do you have some time this afternoon?" Genevieve asked her son.

Lucien smiled softly. "For you, I have all the time in the world."

She nodded with pride. "Good. Then would you please stand over there so I can paint your portrait?"

His shoulders slunk. "Again?"

"I haven't painted you since you were a small boy!" she protested.

"I know, but do you really need to? I'm not much to look at," he grumbled.

Jean had been walking by the door and overheard Lucien's complaints. She raised her brow and couldn't help but think that he was quite a lot to look at. But her opinion she'd keep to herself.

"Why don't you paint Jean? She's much prettier than me," Lucien continued, trying desperately to avoid posing for a portrait.

Jean blushed furiously as she eavesdropped.

Genevieve told Lucien, "I've painted Jean many times. She's a lovely subject. And actually, I think it might be even nicer to have a double portrait. Lucien, would you ask Jean to join us, please?"

Lucien figured that even if he couldn't get out of it, he could at least drag Jean along with him. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. He'd have someone to talk to while Maman was focused on her sketching and such. That was always the worst part of modeling for portraits as a boy. Staying still in the silence of her work. She wasn't a good conversationalist when she was focused, too distracted by what she was doing to listen to anything anyone said. Lucien knew he'd inherited a similar quality, but it didn't make it any less annoying to be on the other side of.

He found Jean dusting in the parlor, though her movements were harried, as though she were trying to look busy. "Ah, Jean, would you mind, um, posing for my mother?"

"Of course. Did she specify whether she plans on doing three-quarters or full-length? Because I do need to get dinner started in a while, but I don't want to interrupt her process if I don't have to."

Lucien rubbed the back of his neck, feeling very awkward about the whole situation. "Actually, she wants to do a double portrait."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Both of us. Together."

Jean couldn't help but chuckle slightly. "I don't know why you're nervous. It isn't so difficult to just sit there while she sketches and paints."

The two of them went back into the studio and allowed Genevieve to direct them to where she wanted them. She was very particular, much more insistent than Jean had experienced before. Perhaps this was a change in her since becoming a widow. She hadn't painted since Thomas's death. Jean hoped that doing things she'd enjoyed would help her find her life again after the passing of her husband. Jean herself had lost interest in many of her old pastimes after she lost Christopher and found new ones to occupy her time. It was an adjustment, certainly. But the force with which Madame was directing Jean and Lucien was somewhat worrisome. At least while posing, Jean could keep a close eye on her.

"Jean, Mother tells me you've posed for her before?" Lucien asked, once Genevieve had set to work sketching her subjects.

"Yes, every few months she asks me to sit for her. Usually if I've changed my hair, or if there's a certain kind of light coming into the studio. Anything different she can explore. I find it very relaxing," Jean replied. She didn't need to admit that she adored being a painter's model. It made her feel beautiful and special. The idea that Genevieve Blake saw her as a worthy subject of a work of art was the highest honor she had ever experienced.

"So where are all these portraits?"

Genevieve responded by pointing to the wall opposite her, behind where Jean and Lucien were seated. Lucien turned to see three long shelves, each filled with canvases that all depicted various images of Jean Beazley. Jean blushed violently. As much as she liked sitting for those portraits, seeing them all sitting there was rather embarrassing. But Lucien gazed in amazement. Each painting was different and beautiful. Some highlighted the coloring of Jean's hair, the curls of chestnut and auburn. Some were focused on the gorgeous piercing turquoise of her eyes. More showed her pale skin in various lights. Genevieve had studied Jean the way Lucien might study a tissue sample, learning all its secrets and revealing all its depth.

"It seems you two are quite the match. Jean is a lovely subject, and Maman, you've captured every bit of her," Lucien complimented.

With a nod, Genevieve scolded, "Stop moving so much."

Jean and Lucien returned to their carefully posed positions.

This time it was Jean's turn to broach a topic of conversation. "I've seen the paintings of you as a boy. I suppose that's why I was so surprised to see you when you first arrived. You look quite different."

He scoffed, "Really? I don't look the same as I did when I was ten years old?"

She rolled her eyes. "That's not what I mean. You've aged and matured but…I don't know, I suppose there's something just very different about you. I get the feeling that the boy in those paintings wouldn't recognize the man you've become," she said quietly.

Lucien didn't know how to respond. She had thought enough about him to develop that opinion. Despite the way she would save him from his nightmares, he still didn't really believe she cared for him as anything more than an extension of her duties to his mother and to the house. Perhaps he was wrong.

Genevieve paused her sketching to watch her son. The way he was looking at Jean. Both she and Thomas had had a feeling about them. Jean with her compassionate and wild heart. Lucien with his adventurous nature and undying kindness. He looked at her in a way Genevieve had never seen him before. She had never seen him look at his wife, but she couldn't imagine he'd ever looked at anyone quite this way before. She was desperate to capture it. She moved her pencil swiftly across the page, trying to get the precise look in his eyes.

Jean felt the palpable silence in the studio. Even Madame's sketching was eerily quiet. There was an intimacy here that she hadn't expected. Sitting with him so close in broad daylight, being scrutinized by the artist. Jean was a bit wary of what this portrait would reveal.

The trill of the doorbell interrupted everyone's thoughts. "That'll be Mr. Harper," Jean stated, remembering Lucien's appointment that afternoon. "I'll go let him in. Lucien, do you need anything?" she asked. She liked to keep the surgery stocked as needed, as she had done with Dr. Blake before, but the former doctor was much better about requesting what he needed, while Lucien needed constant reminding to check on things.

"Actually, Jean, I will need assistance, if it isn't too much trouble," he requested politely.

Genevieve smiled. "I think I can work from what I have for now. I'll want you both back in position tomorrow afternoon," she instructed.

"Of course." Lucien saluted, causing a smile from both his mother and Jean. He left the studio with Jean following close behind. She went to the front door to see to Mr. Harper, and he went into the study to collect his patient notes.

"Mr. Harper is waiting for you in the surgery, Lucien," Jean told him, poking her head into his study.

"Thank you. Would you mind helping me take some bloods?"

She furrowed her brow in confusion. "You need my help to collect blood?"

"Mr. Harper has been suffering from dizzy spells. If my suspicions are correct, I may need help keeping him stable if he faints or suffers a seizure. I could probably handle it myself, but I'd feel better if you're close by."

Jean was enormously flattered. Dr. Blake had never asked for her help with patients. She'd only restocked supplies, greeted patients, and kept the books. This was a significant vote of confidence from Lucien, and Jean was proud to learn and help in any way she could. "I am here for anything you need," she told him.

She watched as Lucien explained the possible complications to Mr. Harper in a calm manner, making it very easy for him to understand. Some smart people enjoyed showing off how smart they were. Lucien never passed up an opportunity to do so, but he took more care in speaking with his patients. He truly cared about them, as patients and as people, inquiring into their lives and families and such. Jean smiled.

And she realized what Lucien had been talking about that night she'd sat with him after a nightmare. The way she looked at him when she didn't think anyone could see.

Oh yes, that portrait was sure to reveal quite a bit.


	7. Chapter 7

There wasn't enough time. There never was, for most things in life. There hadn't been enough time for her to say goodbye to Thomas, the love of her life, and there wasn't enough time with Lucien. He was here, for now. But for how long? How could she possibly get him to stay? There simply was not enough time to make him see, really see, how important it was for him to stay.

Genevieve Blake wouldn't waste any of the precious time she did have. She painted furiously. This double portrait of Jean and Lucien had consumed her. Never before had she put so much time and detail and devotion into one of her works. But it was so important to finish it while she could. A picture is worth a thousand words, so they say, and she knew it would have to suffice, knowing that she wouldn't have time for all the words she wanted to express.

The time passed beautifully, however. Genevieve found she existed solely for those afternoons she spent in the studio with Jean and Lucien. She sat and painted, trying desperately to capture the light and colors just so. They posed in front of her. Gone was the awkwardness of the first afternoon, each saying just slightly too much for the other and retreating back again. Now, they chatted happily about anything under the sun. Jean asked Lucien about his work and his time abroad with his studies in Edinburgh and London and Singapore. He told her of the wonders of the world and the science he so revered. He asked her about her children and her beautiful flowers in the garden and sunroom. She told him all about her strong but sensitive Christopher and her reckless but charming Jack.

And more than once, they did something Genevieve had never really anticipated: they made each other laugh. She paid very little mind to what they were actually saying, but something caused Lucien's head to fall back and his happy face to bark out a loud, hearty laugh. Jean burst into bright giggles, leaning forward and clutching his arm in her hysterics. That was the moment Genevieve knew they'd be alright.

"I think I am finished with you two now," she announced after their laughter died down.

"Oh, already?" Lucien asked, the faint sound of disappointment in his voice.

Genevieve nodded. "Yes. I have a few details I'd like to clean up, but I don't need you here for that," she explained.

Jean smiled. "I'll be interested in the final piece. I don't think I've ever sat for you for so long before. I have no doubt this will be absolutely wonderful."

A vaguely superstitious woman, Genevieve never let anyone see her work until it was finished. She found an artist's vision was clouded by the eyes of others. Neither Jean nor Lucien would see this painting until she was satisfied it was complete. But there was still more work to do before she ran out of time. "Lucien," she called to her son as Jean left the studio to finish her vacuuming.

"Oui, Maman?" he replied.

"I want to stay up here and finish working. I think you should take Jean out for dinner in town."

Lucien frowned, confused. "Why?" he blurted.

Genevieve glared at her foolish son. "Because you clearly enjoy each other's company, and Jean deserves a night off from cooking for us all the time. And since I won't be having supper this evening, you may as well use the time to your advantage."

"Right. I'll just…go ask her," Lucien replied awkwardly.

With a knowing smile, Genevieve waited for him to leave before she returned to work on her painting. It was time to finish.

Lucien went to find Jean and asked if she'd like to go out to dinner. Her response was not unlike his when his mother suggested it. "Why? I mean, is there a problem with my cooking? I haven't heard any complaints before, but I'm open to recommendations."

"No, your cooking is wonderful. I've never had so many incredible homecooked meals in all my life," he assured her. "But Mother wants to finish her painting by working through dinner, so it was her idea."

That changed things. Madame had suggested that Lucien ask Jean to dinner. That was much safer. "I see. In that case, I would be happy to go out to dinner tonight. Thank you for offering."

And with some quick freshening up, they were off they went to the Colonists' Club. Lucien had taken over his father's membership. He hated it and hadn't gone there once since returning to Ballarat, but it was the perfect place to take a beautiful woman for dinner.

Lucien reveled in acting the part of a charming gentleman with Jean. He held open doors and pulled her chair out and stood when she left the table to powder her nose. Each time he did anything very mannerly, Jean had to stifle her laughter. It was so unlike him! She would have never guessed that the brash, unkempt drunk who had inhabited the Blake home six months earlier could have the potential to be so thoroughly lovely.

He caught her watching him over their entrees. "Jean, it's impolite to stare," he teased.

"I'm sorry, I just cannot get over how different you are! It just doesn't feel like you're the same man who got arrested for picking a fight with a police sergeant and drunkenly made advances while I trimmed his hair in the kitchen late at night."

Lucien's eyes went wide. "Did I make advances? I'm terribly sorry. Though I can't say I'm surprised at myself."

"Nothing I couldn't handle," she assured him. "You had a tendency to comment on my appearance more than was appropriate when you were drunk."

"I'm sure you were very beautiful."

"Yes, that's usually what you would say."

He grinned. "Something I still believe in sobriety." Lucien lifted his glass in salute to her before taking a sip of wine.

Jean was suddenly extremely self-conscious. "You shouldn't have taken me to dinner here. I shouldn't have let you," she said with a note of panic.

"Why on earth not? Don't you like it?" he asked.

"No, it's wonderful. But…I'm just the housekeeper," she whispered.

"Not a single person in that house has ever thought of you as _just_ the housekeeper, Jean. And I inexplicably belong to this Club, as it were and you are my dinner companion for he evening. Besides, you're more a part of the family than I am, honestly. And as much as I love my mother and feel the obligation to stay here and make sure she's alright, I wouldn't have stayed this long if you hadn't helped me be better."

"You did that all yourself, Lucien. I just bullied you into it," she said, her lips quirked into a teasing smile.

"Regardless, you were exactly what I needed."

His tone had a sincerity to it that pierced through her heart and made her feel warm all over. "I think it's time we went home," Jean suggested. If he had pressed her, she would have said she wanted to check on Madame. But really, Jean suddenly needed to be with Lucien away from the eyes of a public place.

He paid the bill, and they left the Club together. As soon as they were outside, Jean took hold of Lucien's hand. He jumped at the unexpected contact but almost immediately gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

Back at the Blake house, Genevieve had finished her painting. Looking upon her work, she saw the faces of the two people on earth she loved more than any others. And miraculously, she thought she had captured their love for each other in her painting. They hadn't realized it yet, certainly, but they soon would.

But just to be sure, Genevieve took out a clean sheet of paper and wrote a letter her beloved son and the woman who had single-handedly saved the Blake family from itself. The writing poured out of her as though the ticking of the clock had unlocked this well of words within her. When she was finished, she folded the page and tucked it into the back of the canvas. Genevieve placed this, her masterpiece portrait, on the mantle to be displayed in all its glory. She glanced up at the gold leaf on the ceiling and smiled at the sparkles.

Genevieve went down the hall to her bedroom and felt the weariness she'd fought against all day weigh her down. She lay in the place formerly occupied by Thomas each and every night. She whispered a prayer in her native language to God above and to her husband in heaven. Genevieve Blake closed her eyes, still smiling in contentment.


	8. Chapter 8

Jean felt the flutter of anticipation and excitement flood her as they made their way home after dinner. As he drove, he'd held her hand, as she had done when they walked to the car. It felt correct, somehow, to hold his hand. It was natural and comforting. They fit nicely together, she noticed. But she had also noticed how nicely they fit together when she would sit with him and hold him in her arms through his nightmares. He hadn't had one in nearly a week. Perhaps he was getting better. Perhaps she had been some help to him.

Lucien could stop glancing over at the incredible woman sitting next to him. He tried to keep his eyes on the road, but he was distracted by her beauty and her elegance and the overwhelming affection he had for her. How had this happened? When had he stopped seeing her as the strict and invasive force in his family home? When she took the time to cut his hair? When she had brought him food in jail? When she had insisted on comforting him through his nightmares? No. That was all the beginning, to be sure, but it was sitting with her for Maman's portrait that had helped Lucien see that Jean Beazley had somehow become his favorite person in the world.

And their obvious attraction to each other was getting hard to ignore. This dinner had made that very clear. He would remain a gentleman when they got to the house, but he knew he couldn't resist seeing how far she would be willing to go with him. He opened the car door for her when he parked in the drive and offered his hand. She took it with a sly smile. "I had a lovely evening, Lucien. Thank you for dinner."

"I thank you for dinner every night, so it seemed to be about time to have it go the other way," he reasoned.

She just smiled. She didn't let go of his hand. They slowly meandered to the porch. Jean stopped him before he unlocked the front door. "Wait. Just...wait a moment."

"What is it, Jean?" he asked, his voice low, his body far too close to hers.

"I don't want to disturb Madame." She turned to look at him and saw that they were only inches apart. She could feel his breath on her face. She could practically count the individual hairs of his beard in the dim moonlight. "Lucien..." she breathed, squeezing his hand.

He took her implied invitation and placed his free hand on her cheek. "Jean," he whispered in return. He couldn't help but smile. Her skin was so soft. So lovely.

Her eyes fluttered closed and her mouth parted ever so slightly. Lucien leaned in and pressed his lips to hers. Lightly, at first, just barely brushing against her. Jean's arm came around his waist beneath his jacket, pulling him in closer. Their kiss became stronger, lips moving against each other in a sacred rhythm. Jean let go of his hand to tangle it in his hair, anchoring him against her mouth. He groaned in desire, pulling her as close to him as he could, unable to resist grinding his hips against her to feel his arousal. Jean responded in kind, her tongue darting out against his lips and into his open mouth. Her hand slid down his back to give him a squeeze.

He broke the kiss in surprise at her boldness. He was smiling, as was she. Her lipstick was all over her face and her perfectly curled hair was mussed. He couldn't wait to see what she would look like after a whole night of passion. "Jean, I wasn't kidding when I said I don't want just one night with you."

"Yes, I quite agree. I'm going to go check on your mother, and then I'll meet you in my room for the first of many nights," she replied, giving him one more kiss, taking his bottom lip between her teeth as she nipped and sucked on him.

Lucien's hands shook as he unlocked the front door. "See you in a moment," he whispered in anticipation, bounding up the stairs two at a time.

Jean stifled her giggles. Somehow this wild man had pulled her out of her tidy existence, made a complete mess, and showed her the beauty in it. And she wanted more. She wanted him. Catholic morals be damned. Madame had always told her that the Church should be a comfort, not a punishment. They went to mass together every week and Jean took comfort in it. But her time with the Blakes had helped her find her own path and her own meaning outside what the Church might have dictated. Jean knew she wanted Lucien, knew she loved him. She wouldn't allow anything to make her feel as though it were wrong.

With a happy sigh, Jean hung her coat by the door and went to Madame's bedroom to make sure she was alright before joining Lucien in her own bed.

Lucien stood in Jean's bedroom, pacing back and forth as he waited for her. He was trembling in nervous anticipation. He took off his jacket and loosened his tie. He took the time to gaze at all her things. This was the only room in the house that was only hers and no one else's. She had her own phonograph. There was an old murder mystery novel on her nightstand. Her perfume and makeup and hair pins were neatly organized on her vanity table. She had photographs framed on her dresser. Lucien could tell they were of Christopher and Jack, her sons. He'd been very interested to hear her talk about them during the hours they'd spent posing for Maman's portrait. As he looked at their photos, he couldn't help but hope he could meet her boys one day.

He was about to sit down on the bed to wait when he thought heard his name. He perked his head up and frowned.

"LUCIEN!" Jean's shout was much louder now. Full of…he was afraid of what it was he could hear in her strained shout. He ran downstairs to see what was the matter.

He found her standing in the hallway outside Maman's room. "Jean? Darling, what is it?" he asked, too concerned over the distraught look on her face to worry about letting a term of endearment slip out.

"She isn't breathing," Jean said in a quiet, shaky voice.

Lucien immediately pushed passed her into the bedroom to see to his mother.

Jean had called police, just as she had when Dr. Blake had passed. Chief Superintendent Lawson came himself. He had hoped to be a comfort to Lucien; they had been friends in their youth, though had spent little time together since Lucien's return to Ballarat. Lucien ignored Matthew. He ignored the ambos carrying his mother away. He ignored the phone call from Dr. Alice Harvey, the morgue attendant. He ignored Jean when she tried to tell him that Dr. Harvey found that Madame had been suffering from a leak in her mitral valve, likely for years, never having it treated, and the heart condition had caused an aneurysm in her brain which had burst unexpectedly an hour or so before Jean and Lucien had returned home that night.

Upon hearing the cause of death, Lucien stood up from his chair without a word and went outside. The slamming of the door caused Jean to jump. She sat alone in the parlor and used the quiet privacy to cry. The best day she could remember in many years had turned to the cruelest tragedy.

It was a long time before Jean was able to calm herself down and stop her sobs. It was quiet again. It had begun to rain outside, the drops pounding on the roof in time with the ticking clock on the wall that told her it was nearly three in the morning. She realized she hadn't noticed Lucien return home.

Jean hauled herself off the sofa to go check on him. But his bed was untouched. She wandered the house to find him, but he wasn't anywhere to be found. He hadn't come back yet.

The sting of panic overtook her grief. She knew better than most the things Lucien was wont to do when he was upset. She also knew that the only thing keeping him in line the last few months was the knowledge that his presence and his manners and self-care were only kept up to make his mother happy. Without her to guide him…Jean was suddenly terrified for his safety.

She grabbed her coat, an umbrella, and the keys to the old car. She drove slowly around town, hoping the headlights would show her where Lucien had gone. When she didn't find him around any of the bars, she drove a bit further out of the way, wracking her brain trying to think where he could have gone.

And then she remembered. He had told her during one of their portrait sittings that Madame used to like painting by Lake Wendouree, and she would allow him to accompany her and play in the water while she worked. Based on the look on his face when he told that story, Jean could tell that it was one of the only truly happy, untainted memories of his childhood.

Sure enough, there he was. Jean parked the car and got out with the umbrella and trudged over to him. "Lucien?" she called out over the pouring rain.

He didn't bother looking up. He was lying on the ground, his eyes closed, facing the sky as he slowly sank into the mud.

Jean got a bit closer to hold the umbrella over his face. "Lucien, let's go home," she suggested.

"No home of mine," he replied gruffly.

She could practically feel her heart breaking in her chest. "If you don't get out of this rain, you'll catch your death," Jean said, trying another tack.

"Good."

She hadn't heard that coldness in his voice in quite some time. "Please, Lucien. Please," she begged.

"Just let the flood take me away, Jean," he begged in return.

"I won't insult their memory that way," she replied, realizing as the words came out of her mouth that her purpose now was to care for this man as long as he'd let her. And even if he wouldn't, she would try anyway. It was what she knew Dr. Blake and Madame would want. They had told her as much when they were alive.

Lucien opened his eyes for the first time since Jean had approached him. Even in the darkness, Jean could see that the sparkle she'd grown to love in his blue eyes was absent now. "I won't go back to that house. I can't. Not yet."

She nodded. "I'll be here when you're ready."

"I want to feel the rain on my face," he told her, closing his eyes again.

Jean took a few steps back, trying not to slip on the wet riverbank. And she waited.


	9. Chapter 9

Lucien was absolutely useless for nearly a week. Jean made all the funeral arrangements. She had to ask Matthew Lawson to give the eulogy, knowing Lucien would be unable to stand up in the church and speak, let alone stop drinking long enough to write anything down. Jean had watched him return to the days before his father had passed, locking himself in his room and getting blackout drunk at every opportunity. He'd become mercurial and rude and everything Jean had despised about him in those early days.

But he came to the funeral. He was hungover out of his mind, but he took a shower and put on a black suit and drove Jean and himself to the church for the service.

Jean was too overwhelmed with her own grief to worry about Lucien that day. All she wanted was to mourn her dearly departed friend. Everything else could wait. Or so she thought.

Lucien sat quietly through the service. He seemed to pay no mind to anything. She sat next to him in the front pew, something she was uncomfortable doing—she was just the housekeeper, not a member of the family—but Father Morton gently insisted she remain there beside Lucien.

After the funeral mass, everyone filed out to the graveyard for the burial. It seemed half of Ballarat was there to pay their respects, shaking Jean's hand and giving a concerned look to Lucien still sitting there, staring unfocused eyes into nothingness.

Eventually, they were the only two left in the church. "Lucien, we should go out to the graveside," Jean suggested softly, trying to get his attention.

"No," he whispered.

"I know it's difficult, but you need to be there." She stopped herself before she told him what she really meant. _I need you to be there_. "The priest will be waiting for you."

Lucien looked up at her for the first time. "You said if I left, I'd be back for her funeral in a few months' time. I didn't leave. I did everything you said. And she died anyway." His voice grew more heated with each word.

"You're a doctor, Lucien. You know better than most that there's no controlling these things. She had a heart condition. We couldn't have prevented this. But I know that having you here made these last few months very happy for her," Jean said, hoping to provide some small comfort to him, to keep him off this dangerous train of thought.

He stood up, his anger overtaking his reason. "Father was one thing. We all knew he would go. And good riddance."

"Lucien!" she scolded, "You may not have seen eye to eye, but your father was a good man!"

He barked a cynical laugh. "Mei Lin was slaughtered in front of my face and Li dragged away screaming, and when I wrote to him asking for help, he told me I should have known better!"

"Mei Lin?"

"My wife!" he bellowed. "And my daughter, Li. She was five years old, Jean, and he was her grandfather, and he abandoned us! All because I had the audacity to marry a Chinese woman! Thomas Blake may have been a good doctor and a kind man to you, but he was never that way with me." He paced back and forth at the front of the nave, his anger giving him a manic, nervous energy.

Jean hadn't known any of that. Madame never allowed Dr. Blake to speak of why Lucien hadn't come home. Obviously for good reason. "I'm so sorry."

"You're a Catholic, Jean, you tell me what sort of God allows this suffering. Your Heavenly Father must be like my father to abandon his children in a time of need, to rip away the only good parts of this life. To take my mother." His voice cracked with emotion.

"It was her time," Jean replied weakly.

"IT BLOODY WAS NOT!" he roared, swiping a stack of bibles off the altar table, sending them crashing to the ground.

That was the last straw for Jean. "Get out! Drive to the house and stay there, drink yourself to death, I don't care!" she shouted. "I will not have you ruin this day. You are in no fit state to be in public. So just go!"

Lucien didn't need to be told twice. He stormed out of the church and drove away without a word.

Jean went to the grave, offered apologies to Father Morton, and did her best to represent Lucien in front of the community. Danny drove her home in a police car he'd borrowed.

She found Lucien at the piano with a bottle of whiskey. "I take it you'll be leaving any day now," she said, bypassing any greeting. She was in no mood for pleasantries. Lucien wouldn't have given her any pleasantries anyway.

"No. Things need to be sorted. Patients. And I'll be speaking to Lawson."

Jean was taken aback by this strange response. "Why?"

"I know my father used to be the police surgeon. I'd like to see if the position is open for me to take."

More confusion. "You…you're staying?"

"For now."

"I see. And will you be requiring the services of a housekeeper, or shall I seek employment elsewhere?" Jean was surprised at her own calm demeanor. The mixture of grief over the loss of Madame and anger at Lucien's insolent behavior seemed to have overshadowed the usual terrified, pounding heart that otherwise would have accompanied such a question.

Lucien took another swig of whiskey straight from the bottle. "I've put out an advertisement seeking lodgers. They'll need someone to cook and clean."

If Jean were a different sort of person, she may have given in to the impulse to slap him across the face for that indignant response. Instead, she just glared at him. "Right. Let me know when they move in so I can have the rooms prepared."

Over the next few months, Jean and Lucien remained the same toward each other. Cold and impersonal. Their passionate kiss from the night of Madame's death was like a distant dream, something neither of them could possibly imagine was real anymore. Jean knew that the Lucien Blake who had kissed her, who she had fallen in love with, who she was ready to take to her bed, was gone now. That part of him seemed to have died along with his mother. And as much as she tried not to, she missed him terribly.

They took in two lodgers. Jean's nephew, Danny, and a young district nurse named Mattie. Jean found it comforting to have people in the house. Young, bright, happy people. Their presence gave her a purpose and a welcome distraction from grief.

Lucien began the role of police surgeon. He took care in rebuilding a friendship with Lawson, ingratiating himself with the police after his unfortunate run-ins in the past. He needed that job. And surprisingly, he enjoyed that job. Dr. Harvey proved a brilliant colleague, and he worked well with her. He liked her.

And slowly, life in the Blake house took on a certain routine. He and Jean maintained their professional boundary. Mattie and Danny helped in his cases and became his friends. He stayed up late in his study, drinking and studying and writing letters. He passed out at his desk often.

Jean knew it was no longer her place to take care of him. He'd made that very clear to her. Though that didn't stop her from caring for him anyway, from the silence of the shadows where she would wait for a sign that he needed her.

A loud shout awoke Jean from her sleep one night. It had been quite sometime since she'd heard that sound, but she recognized it instantly. She threw the bedcovers aside and dashed out of her bedroom, putting on her pink dressing gown as she hurried down the stairs.

Mattie had come out of her room, a frightened look on her face. Jean reassured her, "Go back to bed, Mattie. I'll take care of it."

"What's happening?" the young woman asked groggily.

"Never you mind. Get some sleep," Jean insisted.

She entered Lucien's study without knocking. He was lying on the sofa on the far wall, having another of his nightmares. And, as she'd done all those months before, so long ago it was almost a forgotten memory, she did her best to comfort him.

"Lucien," she said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder, trying to keep him from thrashing. He shrugged her way from him aggressively, as he'd often done before. But because he was on the small sofa and not in his own bed, he moved too much and tumbled to the ground. That woke him up. Jean instantly got on the floor to help him. "Lucien! Are you alright?!"

He found himself being propped up against her body, nestled safely in her arms. "Jean?"

"Shh, yes, I'm here. I'm right here," she reassured him.

Lucien nuzzled into her embrace. He knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't help himself. It had been so long since he'd felt her touch, since he'd felt any warmth from her. "Oh Jean, I'm so sorry."

"Hush. None of that now. Let's get you to bed." She pushed him off her so they could both stand up.

"I can't go to bed yet. I have to finish my letter. I was only resting my eyes. I have to finish the letter," he insisted.

"Whatever it is, it can wait till morning."

"It's my daughter, Jean. I've been writing to old contacts of mine in China, searching for her. That's why I took the police job and brought in lodgers. I need the money to hire people to find my daughter," he confided.

Finally, the question was answered. Her heart sank, against her logic wishing it wouldn't. "That's why you stayed."

"Yes. That's why I stayed."

Jean blinked rapidly, hoping her face wouldn't betray her hurt feelings. "Get some sleep, Lucien." She left him standing in the parlor, unable to see him to his bedroom and ensure he settled down alright. She went right upstairs to her room, desperately trying not to think about the day when he did find his daughter, when he didn't need to stay in Ballarat anymore, when he would leave without a backward glance.


	10. Chapter 10

Jean's bad mood persisted for days. Lucien assumed it was something he did, but he wasn't quite sure what. He hadn't done anything egregious in quite some time. He was late to dinner sometimes when he and Alice were working on an autopsy. He may have missed a patient appointment once or twice due to his police investigations. But nothing to personally affront Jean. Lucien didn't like to see her so obviously unhappy, but he wasn't sure what to do for it.

"Mattie, do you know why Jean is upset?" he asked the young nurse one evening after dinner as they sat in the parlor.

"You know, you could ask her yourself. I don't know if you noticed, Lucien, but she does like talking to you," Mattie pointed out.

Lucien felt rather strange about that statement, especially since she'd barely spoken to him in weeks. They'd once enjoyed talking together, all those months ago…nearly six months since his mother had passed—had it really been that long?

Feeling Mattie's expectant gaze on him, Lucien went to the kitchen where Jean was cleaning the dinner dishes. She heard him enter and glanced over to see who it was. "Lucien, anything I can get for you?" she asked over the sound of the sink where she was scrubbing plates.

"No, I'm fine. Can I…can I help you with this?" he asked.

She nodded at the dishtowel. "You can dry, if you'd like."

He went to work, allowing the task to break up the awkwardness between them. "Jean, is everything alright? You've been rather distant lately."

"It's nothing," she insisted. How could she possibly confess her worries to him? She felt silly enough having them in her own mind.

"It isn't nothing. You've been upset. Please tell me what's wrong," he pressed.

Jean turned off the faucet and faced him, her wide eyes betraying her hurt and concern. "I don't know what to do when you leave," she admitted bluntly. It was a true statement, though not the complete explanation for her anxiety.

"Nothing, I should think. You will always have a home here, whether or not I live in this house. That was part of my motivation for having Danny and Mattie move in. If I do go, I won't leave without sorting the accounts and things for you all to continue to stay and have things paid for and such." Lucien hoped she couldn't hear his pounding heart. He didn't want to go. He had to go. Eventually. Perhaps. He had no way of knowing and no words to properly convey that to her.

Jean hadn't expected him to have an answer, let alone one that had obviously taken time and thought to plan. It was somewhat comforting. But again, not the entire solution for her. "I like that you're here," she said in a small voice, staring at the floor.

"I am here. For now."

She forced a smile that didn't reach anywhere near her eyes. "I suppose that'll have to be enough."

Jean knew this conversation was going nowhere good. She didn't want to be so vulnerable and emotional in front of him. Not about this. She had no right to it. So rather than make a fool of herself any further, Jean turned and left the kitchen, mumbling something about dusting. She left Lucien in the kitchen and wandered quickly through the house in search of some solace.

To her own surprise, Jean found herself in Madame's studio. She gazed around the room. It was exactly the way they left it on the day she died. And all of the grief and sorrow and confusion and apprehension poured out of Jean's tears. She collapsed onto the sofa in front of the fireplace.

Trying to catch her breath, she looked up and saw an unfamiliar painting on the mantle in a place of honor. The double portrait of Jean and Lucien that Madame had been working on just before her death. They had never seen the finished work. It looked like an engagement picture of two people in love, she realized. She knew she'd looked at Lucien like that in the past, unable to help herself. But she'd never noticed him look at her that way. Desire was one thing. This was quite another. Deeper, truer.

With shaky hands, Jean picked up the canvas for a closer look. A piece of paper fell from behind it. She sat back down on the sofa with the painting resting on her lap. She unfolded the page and found a note. It was Madame's handwriting. Jean's tears flowed anew, confronted by this reminder of her dearly departed friend. The note was addressed to Lucien and Jean, but it was written in French. Jean couldn't read it. But she stared at the words on the page, tracing her finger on the distinctive curve of the y and g and the specific cross on the t and f.

Lucien sat in the kitchen where Jean had left him, thinking about what she'd said. He had been missing the way they were before Maman passed. He hadn't been that happy in longer than he could recall. Jean had given him that. And when he lost his mother, he'd retreated from her. He'd behaved cruelly. He knew he needed to beg her forgiveness, even if he didn't deserve it from her. But he needed her to understand that in all his hurt and carelessness, his feelings for her, the feelings they had expressed so clearly on that fateful night, those had never gone away for him. He'd been a fool to allow the hurt to overpower him as it had. Proof that he wasn't worthy of anything good in his life. He had to explain, regardless of the response she would have.

He searched the house for her. Danny and Mattie were both mysteriously in their respective rooms, much earlier than usual. Lucien saw a light on in the studio. As he walked through the double doors, he was nearly bowled over by a powerful wave of emotion—visceral grief still so fresh, but comforted by the happy memories of the time he and Jean had spent there together with Maman.

Lucien found Jean sitting on the sofa with the portrait propped up on her knees. He wordlessly came to sit beside her to look at it.

He broke the silence after a moment. "She really did do beautiful work."

Jean smiled softly. "Yes, she did. I can't believe how perfectly she captured us. But this feels so long ago. So much has changed."

"I know. I've been terrible to you, Jean."

She turned to face him for the first time. "Yes, you have. And I keep remembering how you were, like this." She gestured to the painting, propping it up on the fireplace in front of them. "I keep wishing it could be like this again. But I know it can't," she said quickly before he could protest. "I know how you've changed. You're a different man now. And that's alright. I'll be here with you anyway."

He was touched by her words. But her beliefs were inaccurate. "I have changed. But that was the man I changed into," he explained, pointing at the portrait. "You did that, Jean. In knowing you, living with you, falling in love with you, I became a better man. And when Mother died, I reverted to my old behavior. And you deserve better. You deserve only the best in the world. And I'm so sorry I can't be better for you."

Jean swallowed hard. He said he'd fallen in love with her. She didn't have words. So instead she hoped to find some. Jean handed the note to Lucien. "Will you translate it for me?" she asked, her voice cracking slightly.

Lucien looked at the page his mother had written in her native language. He was a bit rusty, but he could manage. He read aloud, "Dear Lucien and Jean, I have completed the painting of you, and I think it is my greatest work. But the more important work I have done is not the painting but in the two of you.

"My dearest Lucien, you have found healing here. You have made it your home again. And I know it is thanks to Jean. My wonderful friend, Jean, I thank you for your years of service, for keeping the house and turning it to a place my son can call his own. Your strength and grace have been a blessing every day that I have been lucky enough to have you in my life.

"But the greatest luck seems to be watching the two of you grow closer. I saw it so clearly as I painted you, the way you each have found your missing piece in the other. I have never seen either you so happy. And I hope you will always remember that, when things become difficult. I know I do not have much time left with you. I can feel the end coming for me. But my last wish on this earth is that you will trust in the love you share, and trust that it will grow and protect you from whatever you face. I hope that you will face it together. I love you both dearly."

Lucien stared at his mother's signature for a moment before looking to Jean. Her eyes shone with tears she tried to blink away. "We still could be the people in the painting. If you want to be," she said quietly.

He knew she was offering him a life raft, extending the olive branch. He desperately wanted to grab hold, but couldn't. "Jean, I don't want to hurt you."

"If you just keep that in mind, I don't think you will. I want you anyway. I have for a long time. And I know everything will work itself out if we work at it together. Just be here, Lucien. Not just physically in this house but really be _here_ for me and for Mattie and Danny and all your patients and the police. I don't ever want to prevent you from being with your daughter or going to find her, but…if you do, just promise you'll come back," she begged. Madame's letter had given her the courage to say exactly what she wanted, to trust that he would reciprocate.

Lucien reached out and placed his hand on her cheek. "Jean, I don't think I could leave you if I tried. I know I told you I only stayed after Mother died so I could pay for the search for Li, but I could find a job anywhere. You are why I stayed. And I do need to find Li and know that she's alright, but this is my home. You are my home. When I find my daughter, I hope you'll come with me to meet her. But until then, I am here, and I always will be."

Jean couldn't believe the words. She laughed slightly, out of catharsis more than anything else. She nuzzled into his touch and rested her hands on his chest before leaning in to kiss him. The long-buried passion between them erupted. Hands were everywhere. Jean's lips parted to accept his tongue to caress her. Lucien leaned forward, gently pushing Jean to lie down on the sofa. She pulled him on top of her, clutching at his neck and shoulders and hair, anything to bring him close to her, to keep him anchored to her.

Lucien broke the kiss to gaze at her, their foreheads touching. They were both smiling, their expressions mirroring those painted on the portrait sitting beside them.

Madame was right. Through all the pain they'd had in their lives, they had miraculously found each other, here in the old Blake house. And here was where they would remain, together.

The End


End file.
